


voicemail

by excentricAnthropologist



Series: hetalia oneshots [8]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers, Rent - Larson
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 11:15:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1938873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/excentricAnthropologist/pseuds/excentricAnthropologist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Al and Gil get some interesting phone calls for Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	voicemail

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a multichap but I ran out of steam after the first chapter, so it's a oneshot. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

We begin on Christmas Eve, with two roommates, Alfred and Gilbert. The place they call home is an industrial loft on the corner of 11th street and Avenue B, the top floor of what was once a music publishing factory. Old rock and roll posters hang on the walls; they have Gilbert's picture advertising gigs at CBGB's and the Pyramid Club.

The apartment also has an illegal wood burning stove; its exhaust pipe crawls up to a skylight. All of the roommates' electrical appliances are plugged into one thick extension cord which snakes its way out a window. Outside, a small tent city has sprung up in the lot next to their building. Inside, it's freezing because they have no heat.

As we begin our story, the apartments' two inhabitants are invested in their own respective passions. Gilbert sits on one of their old dilapidated couches, feet propped up on the guitar amp that supplies power to the Stratocaster he's plucking away at. Alfred, on the other hand, is setting up a video camera, making sure the lighting is right for filming as he adjusts the tripod. Satisfied, he presses the "on" button and begins to speak.

"December 24, 9 pm, Eastern Standard Time. From here on in I shoot without a script," he narrates to himself, turning the camera to focus on the icy street outside. "See if anything comes of it, instead of my old shit."

A snort from his roommate causes Al to turn the camera onto Gil. "First shot, Gilbert." He removes the camera from its stand and makes his way over to the musician. "Tuning the Fender guitar he hasn't played in a year.” There’s the faintest hint of good-natured admonishment in his voice.

Gil responds with a black-manicured middle finger. "This won't tune..." he grumbles, turning the guitar's pegs.

"So we hear..." murmurs Alfred, turning the camera on himself. "He's just coming back from half a year of withdrawal..."

Gilbert's head snaps up. "Are you talking to me?"

"Not at all..." Al says innocently, and turns the camera back to Gilbert. "Tell the folks at home what you're doing, Gil."

Gilbert smirks as he plucks away. "I'm writing one great song..."

He's interrupted by the ring of a telephone sitting on a nearby table. Al glares at it while Gil laughs a muttered "saved".

Al sighs, but lifts his camera to focus on the machine. "We screen; zoom in on the answering machine."

The ringing stops and Al and Gil’s voices announce the beginning of a message (“Speak!”), only to be replaced by the low grumble of Gilbert’s father’s voice.

" _Scheiße_ , that beep was loud. Is this thing working? Gilbert, are you there? It's your father."

Gil mimes shooting himself in the head as Al fails to stifle a laugh.

"Your mother and I wanted to call to say we love you and we'll both miss you tomorrow. Romulus and the boys are here; they say hello".

The jubilant cries of " _Buon Natale_!" and the clink of wine glasses are clearly audible in the background, and Gil’s father pauses at the whispered sound of a woman’s voice.

"Yes, yes, I'll tell him… we hope you like the hot plate we sent you; just don't leave it on when you leave the house, Gilbert."

Another middle finger is pointed at the machine as Al laughs.

"Oh, and tell Alfred we're sorry to hear that Erzi dumped him.”

Al’s smile vanishes as Gilbert cackles. "I say: let her be a lesbian. He’ll find someone... eventually."

Gilbert howls with laughter and Al throws a pillow at him.

"So... that's it. Call us back soon. _Frohe Weihnachten_."

A merciful beep ends the call, prompting Alfred to gets up and press the "delete" button.

"Not exactly what you were looking for for your film?" taunts Gilbert, grinning as he continues to tune.

"Ha, ha," Alfred answers dryly, lifting his camera. "Let's try this again: tell the folks at home what you're doing, Gil."

"I'm writing one great song..."

_Riiiiing_...

Alfred shoots the phone an exasperated look. “Are you kidding?”

“I don’t think the universe wants you to make this film, Al.”

“Shut up.”

The ringing stops. “Speak!”

“Hello? Anyone there? It’s me.”

It’s a low, quiet voice that Al and Gil know well, and it has Al scrambling to pick up the phone. “Hey, Berwald!”

“Gilbert? You actually picked up the phone for once?”

“No, it’s me. Gil’s as antisocial as ever.” This time it’s Al who has to dodge the pillow. He makes his way over to the window to look down at the street below. “Where are you?”

“Downstairs; throw down the key?”

Al fishes in his pocket for the apartment key and throws it out the window. Looking down he can barely make out the silhouette of his old roommate. “Get up here quick, man! A night of celebration is in order!”

“Um…” There’s now a note of apprehension in Berwald’s voice. “Actually, I may be detained…”

“What do you mean?” No answer; just a dial tone. Al raises an eyebrow at the phone, but his confusion only lasts a second, for the phone rings again. Taking it to be Berwald calling back, Al answers it.

“Hey, that was weird. What do you mean, “detained?”

“Hello to you too, Alfred.”

Al clamps a hand over the receiver and wheels around. “It’s Ludwig!” he hisses to Gilbert.

“Shit!” Gilbert scrambles to get up and makes his way over to Al, leaning in over the phone.

“I’m just calling to let you both know I’m on my way.”

“Oh, great!” says Al, pressing a palm to his forehead with a whispered “Fuck!”

“I need to collect the rent.”

Al freezes. “What rent?”

“The rent from this past year, which I let slide.”

Al looks at Gil with wide eyes. Gil frowns and grabs the phone. “What the hell are you talking about, Lud? You were the one that said we didn’t need to pay rent when you bought the building.”

“Yeah, you know, when we were roommates?” Al adds. “You used to live here, remember?”

Ludwig sighs. “How could I forget? You, me, Berwald, and Erzi. How are they, by the way?”

Al narrows his eyes, wary of Ludwig’s attempt at casualness. “Berwald just got back from MIT, and Erzi is performing tonight.”

“I heard. Are you still her manager?”

“Nope; she fired me two days ago.”

“But aren’t you two dating?”

“… she dumped me last month.”

“Oh… I’m sorry to hear that.”

There’s genuine apology in Ludwig’s voice, and it pisses Gilbert off. “Yeah, she was in love with someone else. Stabbed poor Al in the back without so much as a warning But then, you would know all about betrayal, wouldn’t you, Ludwig?”

Ludwig ignores this. “So, she has a new boyfriend?”

Al cringes. “Well, no, not exactly…”

“What’s his name?”

Gil and Al look at each other. “Natalya.”

“Oh…” Ludwig clears his throat. “Like I said, I’m sorry.”

“But you’re still gonna come drain our wallets, right?” Gil snaps into the receiver.

“It’s just business, Gilbert. I’m sorry that you have to take it so personally.”

“Oh, fuck you, Ludwig,” Gil says, stomping away from the phone and flopping back onto the couch.

“… I’ll be there soon.”

_Click_.

Al stares at the now silent phone, then looks at Gilbert. “Sorry, man.”

“Whatever,” Gil says as he picks up his guitar again. “You know Ludwig; we’ll just guilt trip him into letting us off again.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Al says, crossing the room to put the phone back on its hook. “Still, great Christmas present, huh?”

Gil mumbles something in German and begins to pluck out a tune. It’s a pretty melody, melancholic and timeless-sounding. Al picks up his camera to film Gil play. 

“Pretty good, huh?” Gil says with a grin. “I think I’m onto something here.”

“I’d think so, too, if that wasn’t 'Musetta’s Waltz' from _La bohème_.”

“Wait, what?”

The sounds of Gilbert’s plagiarism are cut off as the room is plunged into darkness. The power’s blown.

“Merry fucking Christmas,” Al sighs, getting up to look for a flashlight.


End file.
